


Rumor Has It

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alcohol, Bruises, Claiming, Established Relationship, Gossip, Jealousy, M/M, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera likes to think of himself as a private person. It’s not like it should matter, really, that he’s regularly sleeping with one Yamamoto Takeshi, confirmed baseball idiot and irritatingly skilled hitman." Gokudera finds gossip to be far more startling than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overheard

Gokudera likes to think of himself as a private person. He’s very clear about where his loyalties lie, sure, and when it comes to combat he doesn’t make any attempt to restrain himself from protecting the people who need protecting, but generally he tries not to telegraph his personal relationships. It’s not like it should matter, really, that he’s regularly sleeping with one Yamamoto Takeshi, confirmed baseball idiot and irritatingly skilled hitman, and as long as it doesn’t affect either of their roles as Guardians (and Gokudera makes sure it doesn’t) it shouldn’t matter to anyone else, either. Gokudera is just as capable a right-hand man as he has ever been, even if he comes home to a smile more often than silence, even if he’s developed an uncanny knowledge of the rules of baseball and a certain unstated appreciation for sushi after years of exposure. He can’t deny the pleasure of waking up to Takeshi radiating warmth alongside him, or that of the domestic comfort of arguing over whether to follow a recipe (Gokudera’s preference) or to ‘just wing it’ (Takeshi’s default approach). Travelling is easier when he can bring the most important part of home with him, and besides it saves money to get just one hotel room instead of two when they go on team missions.

Gokudera doesn’t publicize any of this. He’s certain the Tenth knows -- there’s not much that can be hidden from hyper-intuition, and Gokudera wouldn’t make the attempt -- but otherwise he has stayed extremely quiet about his personal life, and no one asks any more than they ask for an actual definition of Mukuro and Chrome’s ever-unclear relationship. Still, after a few years have gone by, Gokudera thinks it’s safe to assume that the other Guardians have put two and two together and come out to the same silent conclusion that the Tenth and Reborn undoubtedly have. He doesn’t mind, really; as long as no one is talking about it directly, the benefits to being one half of an assumed partnership more than outweigh the embarrassment of his personal relationship being taken as a given.

Still, he didn’t think it was quite  _this_  obvious.

Formal parties are a necessity for all the Guardians; large gatherings like this one require the full turnout with no possibility of lingering in private conversations. Even Hibari is visible, if Gokudera looks for him, although his presence is more for the appearance of the thing than anything else; Gokudera hasn’t actually seen him speak to anyone all night, and he’s currently existing in the center of a clear space that shifts with him after speaking to one too many people who had their lives threatened for daring to approach him. Gokudera has been left to make polite small talk with whomever he can fall in with while keeping an eye on the ebb and flow of the crowd -- unthreatening, right now, although he knows better than anyone how quickly that can change. He’s in the middle of his second glass of champagne, considering the clusters of conversation around him and judging which one would be best joined, when the word “Vongola” from a group of young women just behind him swings his attention sharply around, and then “Rain Guardian” holds it there.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable about the ladies themselves; they’re young, barely out of high school if that, and clearly more interested in gossiping with each other than in any sort of political maneuvering. There’s no point in joining their conversation and less interest to the idea, but Gokudera stays still, hesitating with his glass halfway to his lips and his attention dragging their sentences into clarity from the hum of conversation all around him.

“...one of the other Guardians,” one of the girls says, in a hiss that is likely intended to pass for a whisper and is the clearer for its tone. “The dangerous one.”

“ _Really_ ,” another hums, interest audible in her voice. “Well, that definitely explains more than it doesn’t.”

“He’s not interested in any women, that’s for sure,” a third puts in. “I mean, he’s nice, but--”

“Friendly,” the first cuts her off. “Very platonically friendly.”

“I don’t blame him,” the third murmurs. She’s better at whispering than her friends but Gokudera’s intrigued, now, has his entire focus pinned to the gossip occurring just behind him. “If  _I_  could be sleeping with him I would.”

“They make a beautiful couple,” the second sighs. “Do you think they’ll ever come out about their relationship?”

“There’s almost not a point in keeping it a secret when everyone already knows.” It’s the first girl again, the one who lacks the ability to actually speak in an undertone; from the edge to her words, she takes secrecy as something of a personal affront. “It’s not like they’re particularly subtle, after all.”

Gokudera knows he should be offended. He’s gone to some lengths to keep his relationship relatively unknown; to have these same efforts dismissed out-of-hand by some stranger should be insulting, would be if there were anyone else around to see his reaction. But the girls have apparently not seen him standing within earshot, and there’s no one else to see the way he tilts his champagne flute back to hide his smile behind the lip of the glass. After all, despite his best efforts to the contrary, it  _is_  true that Takeshi can be remarkably clingy when they’re on missions, and the way he smiles at Gokudera has always felt a little like standing in a spotlight of affection. It’s only reasonable, Gokudera allows, that someone else watching them would be able to see through the thin facade of silence that he, at least, has sustained on the matter.

“I’d be surprised if everyone doesn’t know already,” the girl goes on as Gokudera swallows a mouthful of champagne, feels the fizz of it tickle his throat and sparkle at the back of his tongue. “I mean, Rain and Cloud, they’re practically  _meant_  for each other, you know?”

Gokudera chokes on his drink. Luckily he does this in a casual, subtle way, that consists more of suddenly stalling the motion of swallowing midway than of actually spitting champagne across the floor. Unfortunately this still leaves him coughing up the liquid he managed to inhale in the first shocked realization, and doubly unfortunately his shock fails to override the mental image of  _his_ boyfriend with…

“Are you alright?” comes a voice at his elbow, accompanied with a hand brushing his sleeve. When Gokudera manages to glance sideways it’s one of the girls, the first one, her voice significantly more syrupy than it sounded when she was offering gossip and  _lies_  to her friends. “I hope there’s nothing wrong with your champagne.” Her gaze sweeps over Gokudera’s features, from the silver of his tied-back hair down over the dark lines of his suit to the toes of his polished shoes, and Gokudera can see her go more fluid, her body falling into lines of suggestion as she considers him. “I know I’ve definitely been enjoying it myself, tonight.”

Gokudera doesn’t even bother trying to be polite about cutting off her attempt at flirtation. “I have to go,” he says, abrupt as he hasn’t been in years, not since he unexpectedly ran into Bianchi in the entryway of a fancy hotel. “I have things to do.”

It’s unforgivably rude, he knows, the worse when he snatches his sleeve away from the girl’s touch and turns away without any more of a farewell than that. But he can’t muster the focus to moderate his reaction when all his blood is going hot in his veins, jealousy no less strong for how completely unjustified it is.

The party is going to have to make do without two of the Vongola guardians for a while. Gokudera has someone he needs to claim.


	2. Open

Takeshi has  _no_  idea what he’s done to deserve this.

It’s not that he’s complaining. Far, far from it; in actual fact this is the kind of thing he dreams about, the sort of situation he sometimes suggests with absolute sincerity that Hayato generally misinterprets as teasing. Takeshi’s more than willing to do anything Hayato wants to do, at basically any time or place; it’s just that he never really expected the other would let himself be persuaded into making out in the coat closet at a fancy party, much less initiate it himself.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Takeshi asks, sounding a lot shakier than he expects by the time Hayato lets him go to catch his breath from the whirlwind of kissing that has pinned him back against the far wall. Takeshi’s hands are caught at Hayato’s shoulders, his fingers winding their way into the smooth line of silver hair as if of their own accord, but even when he hooks a finger under Hayato’s hairtie it doesn’t get the snap of response he is expecting. “I thought you said we had to be social tonight.”

“It’s fine,” Hayato growls, the words dropping so low and rough in his throat Takeshi feels like he’s fifteen again, before ‘Gokudera’ became ‘Hayato’ and before ‘baseball idiot’ turned into an endearment. “It’s not like we need very long anyway.” The hand fisted at Takeshi’s lapel drops, drags down the front of his shirt to the weight of his belt; when Hayato tugs Takeshi arches obediently, rocking his weight forward to press hard against Hayato’s hip. “You don’t need more than a few minutes to come for me, do you?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeshi breathes, his whole body going liquid in the sudden surge of heat that hits his veins. “ _Hayato_.”

“Yeah,” Hayato rumbles, and it’s pleased, now, the sound rolling over into encouragement in the back of his throat. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

Takeshi tugs at the elastic in Hayato’s hair, works the tension of it free; Hayato’s fingers are dragging at his belt, unfolding the leather from the buckle at his hips with a speed as much from practice as from the dexterity that always makes Takeshi go shaky with anticipation. Takeshi doesn’t try to help, knows from experience that he’ll just slow Hayato down; he occupies his hands with burying his fingers in silver hair instead, pushing the curtain of the strands back from the other’s face so he can press his nose in against Hayato’s cheek and breathe in the smoke-spice that always seems to cling to his skin.

“You’re a mess,” Hayato tells him as Takeshi’s belt comes free, as the other’s fingers urge the zipper of his slacks down too. This isn’t a particularly uncommon statement on his lips; what is uncommon is the tone, low and with a purring satisfaction under it like it’s praise instead of the affectionate judgment the words usually are. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Takeshi agrees, because he’d agree to just about anything when Hayato’s hands are pushing his clothes off his hips and because it’s true, he was absent his composure as soon as Hayato came storming out of the crowd to catch his wrist and drag him bodily into the hallway, his eyes sparking green like they only ever get when he’s truly furious about something. Takeshi thought he was about to get shouted at, though he had no idea what about; it doesn’t always matter, with Hayato, and fighting turns into kissing with enough regularity that he didn’t mind anyway. But Hayato just kept dragging him down the hall, even after the door to the main ballroom was shut, and when he did finally turn on Takeshi it was to shove him back into the closet they’re currently in and set his mouth against the other’s like he had every intention of bruising his name into Takeshi’s lips. Takeshi still doesn’t know what Hayato’s angry about, but he doesn’t really care; if the other wants to take out the adrenaline of anger on him via aggressive making out, Takeshi will be the last to complain.

There are hands on bare skin, the cool pressure of rings digging into Takeshi’s hips, and he catches a breath, quivering with the burst of heat that hits his veins like fireworks going off inside his blood. “Oh my god,” he says, the words coming so fast he doesn’t have time to think about how coherent he sounds. “I love you.”

“I know you do,” Hayato growls, as steady on the words as if he’s always meant them, as if it didn’t take years before he stopped flinching back from the weight of affection at Takeshi’s lips. He presses closer, his teeth catching to drag against the soft skin just under Takeshi’s jawline; Takeshi whimpers, gasps for air as Hayato kisses hard against the line of his collar and leaves the skin tingling with the promise of a bruise. “Turn around, Takeshi.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says, quick so Hayato will know he’s heard him even though he lingers a little too long to dig his hands farther into Hayato’s hair, to fit his fingers against the warm line of tension against the back of the other’s neck, just over the crisp line of his suit. Hayato lets him, still sucking heat in under the curve of Takeshi’s throat, and even when Takeshi turns to brace his arm against the wall behind him Hayato stays pressed against him, growling something low and incoherent against the back of his neck. Takeshi bows his head forward, lets his forehead rest against the support of his arm, and then Hayato bites him, hard, digging his teeth in against the thin skin at the very top of his spine and making Takeshi jerk at the sensation.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasps, louder than he should, but Hayato doesn’t chastise him for it, just hums against his skin and slides his hands down Takeshi’s hips to push his undone slacks off his thighs and down around his knees. Takeshi is aware, in a sort of vague, distant way, that he should probably be embarrassed about being stripped down to bare skin in a coat closet one short hallway away from a very fancy party, but Hayato is grinding up against him and he’s never been very good about being self-conscious when it comes to Hayato. “Are you going--”

“You want me to,” Hayato cuts him off, dropping the words with absolute confidence like Takeshi has never heard before, with an edge of pride under the sound, even, like he’s gone right past the insecurities of their youth to come out the other side into something looking a lot like narcissism. Takeshi can feel his cock go harder just from the sound of that tone under Hayato’s familiar growl. “You want me to fuck you, Takeshi.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, certainty clear in Hayato’s tone as he reaches around Takeshi’s hip to skim his fingertips up against the heat of the other’s cock like he’s mapping the shape of it in the shadows of the unlit room. All the air leaves Takeshi’s lungs at once.

“Yeah,” he answers anyway, volunteering a response Hayato isn’t waiting for as the other curls his fingers into a hold on Takeshi’s length and strokes a slow pull of sensation over him. Takeshi rocks forward against Hayato’s hand, thrusting reflexively against the friction, and Hayato purrs against his skin, another rumble of satisfaction as if Takeshi’s typical willingness is exactly what he wants, as if he has some kind of a sure bet going and Takeshi is winning it for him. “Yeah, please.”

“I knew you would,” Hayato says, the edges of the words going rough on Takeshi’s skin. He lets his hold go, draws his hand back and away at the same time he lets his other hand slide away from Takeshi’s hip, but Takeshi doesn’t move, held in place by the promising purr under Hayato’s words, by the anticipation so strong on the syllables it’s nearly as hot as the pleasure to come. There’s a sound, the rustle of fabric and a crinkle of foil and plastic, and Takeshi tips his head to the side, looks over his shoulder to watch Hayato tear open a packet with his teeth. The lighting is too dim for him to see much, everything washed to black-and-white by the minimal illumination, but even in monochrome Hayato is beautiful, the fall of silver hair over his dark suit as striking as the dark of the rings on his elegant fingers as he spills liquid from the packet over his skin.

“You’re always willing for me,” Hayato is saying. He’s not watching Takeshi’s face; he’s watching his fingers, his hands, looking down to close his hold at the other’s hip and draw him backwards to a better angle. Takeshi lets himself be pulled, stutters an anticipatory inhale as Hayato reaches out for him with slick fingers. Hayato hasn’t even unbuttoned his suit jacket yet. “You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”

His fingers are cold with the lube, slide slick over Takeshi’s skin; Takeshi shudders with the gliding friction, tries to find the words Hayato wants to hear as the other’s fingers push against him. “Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking as Hayato’s touch slides into him, stretching him open with as much certainty as if he knows Takeshi’s body better than Takeshi does himself. Takeshi’s fingers drag against the wall, form into a fist as his eyes flutter shut. “Yes, of course I would.”

“Of course,” Hayato repeats, his words purring heat behind the dark of Takeshi’s shut eyes. His touch slides deeper, sending heat radiating up Takeshi’s spine in a wave of satisfaction, and Takeshi has to turn his head back down towards the wall, has to stutter-gasp a lungful of air as Hayato works him open with a rhythm so smooth it feels more reflexive than deliberate. “Because you love me.”

“I do,” Takeshi says, and Hayato shifts against him, rewards him with the stretch of a second finger alongside the first, the two together pushing him open and coursing fire all along his skin. His coat is too hot, his shirt is catching against the sweat on his skin, but he’s still aching for more, his whole body is shaking as if with cold he doesn’t feel. “I love you so much, Hayato.”

“I know,” Hayato says, purring the words into a certainty better than an answer in kind ever could be, with no trace of the adolescent insecurity that Takeshi has spent so long fighting away. He curls in over Takeshi, the heat of his breathing falling against the back of the other’s neck; there’s a ghost of a touch, lips skimming bare skin, and Takeshi groans against the wall as Hayato’s fingers spread wider inside him to urge him hotter, harder, dizzy with the rush of friction in his veins. “I can see the way you look at me, Takeshi.” There’s a thrust of his fingers, a sharp jolt of pressure that arches Takeshi’s spine and steals his breathing; he’s still choking for air when Hayato draws his fingers back and out of him. “ _Everyone_  can, you’d have to be blind to not see it.” There’s the sound of metal on metal, a belt buckle coming open one-handed, and Takeshi is panting against the wall, desperate even with the wide-spread grip Hayato has against his hip. “There’s barely any point to keeping this a secret when you look at me the way you do.”

“Right,” Takeshi agrees, because the words imply he should be apologizing but Hayato sounds vicious with satisfaction, sounds hot and gratified by the words he’s growling into Takeshi’s collar. There’s motion, the weight of shifting clothing and fingers dragging over skin, and then Hayato is groaning a faint sound of reaction as he closes his hand on himself and Takeshi’s shuddering with anticipation heavy as the air before a storm.

“Everyone should know,” Hayato says, and then his cock is pressing against Takeshi’s entrance and Takeshi is whining an exhale, offering a moan half a plea and half appreciation as Hayato lines himself up. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes?” Takeshi tries, and then Hayato slides into him in one easy thrust and his head is tilting back, his shoulders are tensing against the first tremor of sensation that rushes through him. “ _Yes_.”

“We should tell them,” Hayato says against his neck, pressing a kiss into Takeshi’s skin, breathing hot against the back of his ear. He takes another drag with his hips, fucks deep into Takeshi as his fingers tighten at the other’s skin, and Takeshi is gasping even before slick fingers come around to close against the heat of his cock. “We should tell everyone.”

“Okay,” Takeshi agrees. “Sure.”

“I’ll get you a ring,” Hayato says against his ear. He’s rocking hard into the other, his cock jolting sensation through Takeshi with every drive of his hips until Takeshi can’t breathe, can barely parse the slide of slick fingers over him as separate from the pressure of Hayato fucking him open. “How about it, Takeshi, would you wear a ring for me?” His thumb presses against the head of Takeshi’s cock, calluses dragging sensation over sensitive skin, and Takeshi groans something broken and incoherent to give voice to the heat surging into his veins. “So everyone could see you’re mine.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeshi whimpers, gasps a lungful of overheated air. “ _God_.”

“Yeah,” Hayato growls, his mouth finding out Takeshi’s skin again, his teeth catching against the line between Takeshi’s hair and the top of his rumpled collar. “Come for me, Takeshi.” He takes another thrust, his cock stretching Takeshi wide, and then he bites again, teeth catching sensitive skin, and Takeshi jerks and moans and comes all over Hayato’s fingers. Hayato doesn’t let him go as Takeshi shudders through the waves of heat that break over him; he just keeps stroking, the grip of his fingers wringing pulse after pulse of pleasure from the other as he sucks an ache into the back of Takeshi’s neck. It’s only after Takeshi has quaked himself to boneless exhaustion against the wall that Hayato lets his cock go and brackets Takeshi’s hips with his hands to hold the other steady while he thrusts himself to his own orgasm. Takeshi can feel the tension crest and break in Hayato behind him, can feel the rhythm of the other’s movements stutter and stall, can feel Hayato gasping against the back of his neck as he comes into him.

Hayato’s the one to collect himself first, to take a breath like he’s putting himself back together before he slides out of Takeshi and steps back to pull his suit back into place. Takeshi takes longer, too shaky with heat and hazy with pleasure to quite remember how his body works; he’s only just getting his slacks back into some kind of order around his hips when Hayato presses against his spine, his hands sliding around Takeshi’s hips to handle his belt while his mouth fits to the back of the other’s neck again.

“I think you left a bruise,” Takeshi says, ducking his head in submission to the friction as Hayato’s lips mark out a pattern along his collar.

“Yeah,” Hayato says, sounding as self-satisfied as Takeshi has ever heard him. “I did.”

“Can we cover it?” Takeshi asks, his thoughts going hazy as Hayato works over his skin.

“Nope,” Hayato purrs. “Everyone’ll see.”

“Sorry,” Takeshi says even though there’s no real reason he should be held responsible for this.

Hayato hums against his skin. His hands have stalled at Takeshi’s belt; from the way he’s trailing kisses along the other’s hairline, Takeshi’s not sure they’re going to make it back out to the other room any time soon. “I’m not.”

Takeshi shudders an exhale, his eyelashes fluttering shut at the heat of Hayato breathing against his skin. “Don’t you mind?”

“No,” Hayato says. His arm tightens around Takeshi’s waist, pulls him in closer against him. “Let them see.”

“Okay,” Takeshi agrees, willing to be compliant even if he doesn’t understand the cause for this change of heart from Hayato’s usual desire for privacy. Hayato presses closer against him, pins him against the wall as he continues his languid exploration of the back of Takeshi’s neck, and Takeshi lets himself be pushed, presses his forehead to the wall and listens to the hum of satisfaction Hayato is making against his collar. “Hayato?”

“Yeah?” That’s a little rougher, a little closer to Hayato’s usual mild irritation, but he still sounds so warm with satisfaction Takeshi can feel the secondhand pleasure purr along his spine.

He takes a breath. “Can I get you a ring too?”

There’s hesitation, a stall in the pace of the breathing against the back of his neck; then a laugh, a sharp-edged chuckle that curls into a purr of amusement against the friction of his skin.

“Sure,” Hayato says, his fingers spreading wide to brace against Takeshi’s chest. “I’ll wear a ring for you.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says. “I love you, Hayato.”

“Yeah,” Hayato growls against Takeshi’s neck, along the side of his throat where he has fit his mouth. “I love you too, Takeshi.”

Takeshi smiles against the wall. When he drops his hand to catch at Hayato’s wrist, their fingers fit together as if they were made for each other.


	3. Unimpressed

The return of the other Guardians to the party causes something of a stir.

It’s not the sort of thing in which Hibari has any interest. If anything, he’s more irritated by the murmur of whispers that slide through the milling crowd, the hiss of sound that implies -- incorrectly -- that there is anything at all worth noting about Gokudera Hayato leading Yamamoto Takeshi back into the room by the connection of their clasped hands.

“Goodness,” an older woman just within earshot murmurs to the man at her side, her eyebrows climbing to her carefully dyed hair. “That’s certainly one way to come out of the closet.”

“I  _knew_  it,” someone else says, off on Hibari’s right and far enough in the crowd that he can’t put a face to the voice. “I  _told_  you they were sleeping together.”

Hibari does not roll his eyes, only because the movement is exhausting when repeated as often as the herbivores that surround him deserve it. He turns instead, maneuvering through the crowd made somewhat less docile than usual by this pointless exercise in gossip.

“He looks  _ruined_ ,” another woman comments, purring the word into erotic appreciation. “What on earth  _happened_  to him?”

“I can guess,” another voice puts in, drawling the statement into a low drag of suggestion. “I bet the Storm Guardian took him into the hallway and…” the words die to a whisper, soft enough that only the hard edge of consonants is left in the air to suggest the words as clearly as the woman’s tittered “ _Language_ ” does.

Hibari doesn’t roll his eyes at that either. If there is anyone in the room blind enough to be unaware of Gokudera Hayato and Yamamoto Takeshi’s unsubtle relationship of the last six years, well, he stopped having expectations of crowds a long, long time ago.


End file.
